by Mike Lupica
“What?” he said.
He knew he sounded angry, even though his kid sister hadn’t done anything except open his bedroom door. But he was still steamed—and confused, and embarrassed—about the way practice had ended.
He opened his mouth to apologize. But the idea of one more apology tonight made him feel even more exhausted. The best he could do was soften his voice.
“Did you want something, Em?”
She just stood there, still staring, until she finally shook her head, no.
“It’s nothing,” she said, and closed the door.
It was just Tommy and his mom at the table. When Tommy asked why Emily wasn’t with them, his mom said she’d already eaten.
“How did her practice go?” Tommy said.
Emily’s team had called off practice the day before, just like the Bears, because of the funeral. A lot of her teammates, and their parents, had shown up at St. Columbkille, too, supporting her the way Tommy’s teammates had supported him.
“She didn’t go. I ended up keeping her home today after you went to the bus.”
Tommy went to Brighton Middle School. Emily, in fifth grade this year, was still at Brighton Country Day. Sometimes she took her own bus to school; sometimes Mom drove her.
“Was she sick?” Tommy said, thinking maybe that was what Emily had come to his room to tell him.
“No,” his mom said. “She just wasn’t ready.”
“To go back to school?”
“To go back to school, to be with people, to talk to people, even her friends. You may have noticed she hasn’t had much to say the past few days.”
“But then why was she dressed up in her soccer clothes?”
“She was wearing them when she went out in the yard to kick the ball around by herself,” his mom said. “But that didn’t last too long. I guess she didn’t feel like changing just yet.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes until his mom said, “But I think she needs to be around people right now. I think she needs soccer, too, just to make her feel more normal.”
Tommy couldn’t stop himself. “Mom, please stop talking about normal.”
He didn’t say it in a mean way, but she reacted as if he’d yelled at her. The look on her face made Tommy think she was about to start crying again, which pretty much would have been a perfect ending to the night he’d already had. She never cried in front of him or Em. But sometimes, when Tommy would quietly pass by her bedroom, he could hear the sound of her crying from inside.
“I’m sorry,” she said, placing her fork quietly on the plate in front of her.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
“I’m trying so hard.”
Another Gallagher trying her hardest.
“Mom, don’t you think I know that? I promise I know.”
“I just keep trying to do what I’ve been telling you and your sister to do: continue putting one foot in front of the other.”
“Mom,” Tommy said. “You’ve been awesome. You’re as brave as Dad was.”
“No, I’m not,” she said. “I could never be.”
“Well, I think you are.”
She managed a small smile. “We’ll agree to disagree on that one. But if you really think that, it just means I’m fooling you the way I’ve been fooling everybody else.”
“Not true.”
“Yes, honey, it is.” Somehow she managed another smile. “Let’s change the subject, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I knew Em couldn’t practice if she didn’t go to school, but I thought I could get an exception because . . . well, you know. But then she said she didn’t want to practice, anyway. I told her it would make her feel better the way football was going to make you feel better.”
“Right,” Tommy said.
His mom raised her eyebrows. “That didn’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“It was just kind of weird tonight, is all.”
“Weird in what way?”
So much for not talking about practice. “I wanted to be out there so bad and playing again that I kept messing up.”
“You’ve got a lot on your mind. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Anyway, I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be.”
“Not sure about that,” Tommy said. “I just kept making bad choices. And Dad always said there was no excuse for that.”
She made her voice sound deeper, imitating his dad. “Bad plays, yes. Bad choices, never.” She reached across the small kitchen table and put her hand over Tommy’s. Lately they’d been eating dinner at this table, as if they were avoiding the dining room, where they’d always eaten family dinners when it’d been the four of them.
“You had to know it was going to be at least a little weird tonight,” she said.
“But I made things worse for myself,” he said. “Much worse.”
“Want to tell me what really happened?”
He shook his head. “It’s not that big a deal, Mom. I’ll figure it out.”
“I know it’s football,” she said, “but maybe I can help with the figuring out part. Even though I’m not your dad.”
“Don’t want you to be,” Tommy said. “Just want you to keep on being my mom.”
Her hand was still over his. She squeezed his now. “Deal,” she said.
“Deal,” he said.
“Dessert? I bought those chocolate chip cookies you like at the market.”
“No thanks.”
“Uh-oh. Now I know it was a rough practice.”
“I’m just full.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“Maybe I’ll have some later. Thursday Night Football is on tonight.”
“Pats?”
She always guessed the Pats were playing when there was a game on television, even though she knew as much about the NFL schedule as she did about video games. Which meant a whole lot of nothing.
“Nope,” he said. “The hated Jets against the hated Dolphins.”
She started to say something then, but stopped herself, because they both heard the siren.
Neither Tommy nor his mom moved. It didn’t sound like it was coming from their street. But it was close enough. Maybe a block or two away. His mom turned to her left, looking out the kitchen window.
Tommy watched her eyes, which looked scared and hurt at the same time, staring out into the dark, until the sound quickly faded into the distance.
ELEVEN
TOMMY GALLAGHER HAD NEVER BEEN big on texting, once his dad and mom decided he was old enough to have a cell phone. Texting to him was just another form of talking, and he had never been a big talker, even before this week.
His dad always said that you learned more with your mouth shut than you ever would with it open, that you learned by listening. He said he never knew anybody who made himself much smarter by talking.
There it was again, he thought, lying on his bed.
His dad always said.
His dad used to say.
His dad told him one time.
How long did he go in a day without thinking that way about something? He wondered if it would ever change, if he’d do it less as the weeks went by, then the months and years.
But did he want to do it less? Maybe that was the question he ought to be asking himself. Was this just Tommy’s harmless way of keeping his dad’s memory alive inside him?
Everybody kept talking about moving on. But how much did he want to, really?
He heard his phone buzz and saw he had a text from Greck, asking if he was doing okay. He put the phone back on his nightstand.
He wasn’t okay, so why should he lie and pretend otherwise?
Tommy thought briefly about calling Nick and apologizing, really apologizing this time, for what had ha
ppened at practice. He even picked up the phone, about to speed-dial Nick’s number, before he changed his mind. He started thinking more about what had happened. Even though he’d gotten benched tonight, there was still a part of him that didn’t think he should have been punished.
Seriously? When did coaches start punishing guys for trying too hard?
Tommy had always been taught that in football you were supposed to try harder than everyone else. The best players never left anything on the field. It was the football version of being the last man out, like his dad used to be when he was fighting fires.
He and Nick Petty would have to work things out.
Just not tonight.
He opened his laptop and went to NFL.com. The Dolphins were ahead of the Jets 7–0 late in the first quarter, their quarterback having already thrown a touchdown pass. Tommy figured he’d go downstairs in a few and watch the game until it was time for him to go to bed, even knowing that his heart wasn’t in it tonight. It was just one more part of the general weirdness of his life, not being interested in watching a football game, even though he’d once told his dad that he’d be happy if there was a game on every night of the week.
Tommy sat up suddenly, taking in big gulps of air, feeling as if all of the quiet in his house was sitting on his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe, like he was at the bottom of a dog pile in football.
After a while, struggling to inhale and exhale, he regained control of his breathing. He decided to get out of his stuffy room. He opened his door and walked toward the stairs. Then he looked down the hallway and saw Emily’s door was still closed, no light sneaking out from inside her room, no music playing, no sound at all. He remembered Em, standing in his doorway before, like there was something she wanted to ask him.
Tommy walked toward her door. “Em?” he said softly, not wanting to wake her if she’d already gone to sleep.
Nothing.
He gave a light knock. “Em? You awake?”
He stood there waiting, but heard no response. Maybe she was asleep.
Tommy went downstairs to watch football, just because he couldn’t think of anything better to do. He would watch the game alone. He knew he’d have to get used to that. He hadn’t watched any football last Sunday, the day after his dad died. But he’d watched some of the Monday night game, by himself, just to finally get away from the crowd of people who’d come to pay their respects.
It hadn’t been the same, not without his dad there to talk X’s and O’s.
Now here he was again. Alone. Trying to study what was happening on the field the way his dad had taught him, trying to be a good reader.
But even as he tried to do that, his mind wandered to a place that he kept coming back to, no matter how hard he tried to stay away.
Why hadn’t his dad read the situation better in that burning house?
After all the times he’d gone into houses like that, surrounded by fire, why hadn’t he gotten out of that one when he’d gotten the chance?
Why hadn’t he made a bigger hole in that window and jumped out of it himself after the little girl was safe in Uncle Brendan’s arms?
At the worst possible moment, why had it been Patrick Gallagher, the dad who’d always told him to be a step ahead instead of a step behind, who’d been a couple of steps too slow?
Tommy felt like he’d asked his dad a million questions in his life. Now he’d never get the answer he wanted the most.
The answer he needed the most.
TWELVE
ON SATURDAY MORNING, before it was time for his mom to drive him to the game, Tommy decided something important: The way he saw it, his season was starting today. Or starting all over again. There was the football season he’d had when his dad was still here; now there was this one.
With his dad gone, he was on his own. It didn’t mean he wasn’t going to rely on Coach Fisher or his teammates. Tommy would always be a team-first guy. His dad had told him that being on a team was no different than being on a crew of firemen. To Patrick Gallagher, the guys on Engine 41 had been more than just teammates. They’d been his friends. He’d had to trust them, and trust their loyalty. He’d told Tommy there couldn’t be even the slightest doubt, because that moment of doubt could make all the difference. You had to be able to count on your guys a hundred percent. And they had to be able to count on you. Simple as that, whether you were fighting fires or trying to win football games.
Tommy realized that was the mistake he’d made at practice the other night. His hard hits had given Danny and Nick a reason to doubt him.
But they’d all moved past that now. Tommy had decided not to wait; he’d talked to both of them at school on Friday.
“I’ll always have your back,” Tommy said.
Nick laughed and said, “That is way better than getting body-slammed in the back, trust me.”
“I just want you to know you can trust me.”
“I’ll always trust you,” Nick said. “But, T? As much as you love football, sometimes you gotta remember it’s just football, not . . .”
Nick stopped himself. But Tommy knew what was coming. So he just went ahead and finished the sentence. “Not life and death,” he said.
Tommy knew that. He realized no matter how well he played or how many games he won—or even how mad he got—none of that was going to bring his dad back. But that didn’t make it any less difficult.
All he could do now was try to play football the way his dad had taught him. Every game. Every down. He was going to make the guys who thought they were leaving it all on the field look as if they weren’t trying at all.
When Tommy and his mom got to the field in Watertown, she told him she was going to have coffee with a friend, but would be back before the game started.
“Big game, right?” she said before Tommy got out of the car. “Nick’s mom told me the Titans are one of the best teams in the league.”
“They’re all big games,” he said. “But this one might be the biggest of them all.”
Emily wasn’t coming to the game. Their aunt Peggy, his dad’s youngest sister, was babysitting. Em had a soccer game later, and Tommy had promised her he’d be there, even though it was actually the last thing he wanted to do after playing his own game.
As Tommy walked across the parking lot and toward the field, it occurred to him that it had been one week, almost exactly, from when he’d heard the first siren.
• • •
“You think these guys are that good?” Greck said to Tommy and Nick on the sideline before the game.
“No matter how good they are,” Tommy said, “we’re better.”
“Don’t you love it,” Nick said, “when Gallagher goes all analytical on us?”
“You want analysis for dummies?” Tommy said. “How about we jump these guys early and never let up?”
First drive of the game, Titans on offense, and Tommy was ready to get to work.
Fresh start, but same old Tommy.
On the third play of the drive the Titans’ quarterback, Kevin Corwin, dropped back to pass, two yards shy of a first down. Tommy charged right out of the gate and used his speed and strength to blow past his blocker. No problem.
When Kevin saw Tommy running toward him like a maniac, Kevin decided to pull the ball down and try to run with it. He turned it on, sprinting toward the line of scrimmage, but couldn’t make it to the marker before Tommy was on him, pushing him to the ground and out of bounds for a loss. Fourth down.
Tommy was about to get up and high-five Greck when he heard the ref blow his whistle. Next thing he saw was a yellow penalty flag on the ground.
The ref called a late hit on Tommy, saying Kevin had been out of bounds before Tommy tackled him.
Are you kidding me?
It hadn’t even been close.
Tommy knew Kevin was still inbounds w
hen he’d put a good, clean hit on him. In fact, Tommy didn’t think of it as a hit, it’d been more of a shove on the sidelines, Tommy not even trying to put him on the ground because he knew he didn’t have to.
But the ref, who was way behind the play, threw his flag anyway.
Tommy knew the call would stand; it’s not as if there was instant replay in their league. He realized that even if he said something, he wasn’t going to change the ref’s mind. But he still wanted to explain that he wasn’t that kind of player, that he wouldn’t hit somebody after he’d crossed the out-of-bounds line, because in Tommy’s mind, that was crossing a different kind of line. But as soon as he started moving in the direction of the ref, Greck grabbed him from behind.
“I’m cool,” Tommy said.
“Maybe you are, maybe you’re not. I’m just not taking any chances.”
“You know I didn’t deserve that flag.”
Greck said, “I do know that. But I also know that if you say something, he might tack on fifteen more yards. He might even toss you. And we need you.”
Tommy knew it was taking all the control he had to keep his voice down. It didn’t mean he could do the same with his anger. He took a deep breath and walked back toward the huddle.
After the penalty it was first down for the Titans. As far as Tommy was concerned, they should’ve been punting the ball. Instead the Bears were still on defense and the Titans were moving closer to midfield.
On the very next play, Tommy decided to make up for his mistake—even though it hadn’t really been a mistake, just a flat-out bad call—by blitzing Kevin, wanting to get a sack and push back the Titans.